Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“What are the odds that she’s talking to you?” I retort, pushing back for the first time.
“She will… if she wants her trust fund. Unless she no longer needs it. I assume since the two of you are getting married. Fifty-fifty?” he goads.
I think about telling him just how well I’ve done at taking care of his daughter, but a flash of someone’s suit walking by the open door brings me back to the present moment.
“We discussed a prenup … specifically not having one. Although none of this is the concern of the board or to you.”
He rises, and I half expect him to flip the damn table, but instead, he adjusts his tie and keeps his voice even as he threatens me, “Keep your fucking hands off my daughter, or I’ll destroy you. Your family. Your name will be a curse in every business and academic circle.” The sharpness of his blue eyes and the disgust that coats his tone are ones I’m familiar with.
All the fucked-up responses rebound in the back of my mind. I think about telling him how it’s her hands that were all over me, and that’s why I tied them up.
Instead, I offer him a pressed smile. “Have a good week, Dean Chambers.”
I walk to the door with only thoughts of Brooklyn’s gorgeous body and what I plan to do with it in my mind. “I know I will.”
With that, I exit the room with my lie fueling the fire of what is still to come between us all.
CHAPTER 4
Brooklyn
All day yesterday, I avoid my father like the fucking plague until I can’t
anymore. I have to leave soon to meet him, but I don’t want to move from the corner seat in the living room. It’s my depression spot, sunken cushion and all. The clock ticks, and I realize I spent most of the morning trying to figure out what I would say to him. And I’ve come up with nothing.
As my freshly polished nails tap on the empty crystal glass, I don’t know where to start. I never do with my father. I’ve spent most of my life feeling like he resents me because my mother cheated on him and left him for another man.
She cheated on that one too and moved overseas, so I suppose it’s a consolation prize for him.
I guess it doesn’t matter that she left both of us, saying she has a new chance at life. I rarely see her, and when I do, it never ends well. From the moment they divorced, my father became a different man. There are days when I don’t recognize him, and sometimes I feel like he knows it.
I mean, how many times do you have to remind someone they aren’t good enough for them to believe it? It’s all he ever tells me, and at some point, it becomes good enough to know you’ll never be good enough.
I shake the thought out of my mind and shift my attention to the text message that dings on my phone. Thinking it’s my father, I grab it and realize it’s my best friend, Aspen, instead. Her ding is followed by a string of other messages from the group chat we’re in with our close friends. My gut sinks, and I have to shove down the anxiousness. We all grew up together. Some say we are only friends because of our family's wealth. Others say we genuinely look out for each other.
Either way, Aspen and I are like sisters. Both of us come from fucked-up families where all that matters is the bottom dollar and whether you’re wearing designer clothes and live in million-dollar estates. We have a lot in common, except Aspen has her mother in her life.
We both know the pressure to be perfect on the outside while dying on the inside. It’s the norm for the socialites who live on the Upper East Side of New York City. Where dreams are made with deals with the devil.
Money.
Everything and anyone has a price, and I learned that at a very early age. Aspen and I both have. Our family’s drama gives soap operas a run for their money. I can’t make up the shit my father has done to stay the wealthiest and sway politicians and brokers. Now he runs the most prestigious university, putting him at the top of the hierarchy. Exactly where he thinks he belongs.
I like to think of it more as a food chain and every person for themselves.
My cell phone begins to ding again, tearing my eyes back to the text message from Aspen.
Aspen: Oh my God. When were you going to tell me?
My heart drops, but I quickly compose myself and text her back.
Brooklyn: Tell you what?
Aspen: Brooklyn… we all know. There’s a freaking video!
Brooklyn: Know what?
My whole life comes crashing down the second she texts…